


A Matter of Doctrine

by saliache



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Noldor politics, Old Republic Era, Old Republic era analogue, Star Wars AU, Well - Freeform, and the Force doesn't help, in which Finwe makes things complicated after his death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:12:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6183808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saliache/pseuds/saliache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the waning years of the Old Republic, Ñolofinwë Finwion is instructed to seek out his lost half-brother by none other than the spirit of his father. Fëanor being Fëanor, however, things don't go quite as planned. The galaxy will never be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from tumblr

There were plenty of people who thought his half-brother was mere legend, Ñolofinwë thought despairingly. Sometimes, it felt that way even to him. Yet he knew of all the scions of the great Sith-turned-Jedi Finwë Ñoldoran, and they were all of them mortal flesh and blood.

 “He cannot be much farther,” Arafinwë murmured, no real hope in his voice. “We have been here for _months_ already.”

 The lower parts of Nar Shaddaa were crowded, dirty, and dangerous, even for experienced Jedi Masters. The situation wasn’t helped by their mission, the reason they had come; to find the fallen Sith Lord Fëanáro Curufinwë, and offer him alliance before Morgoth destroyed them all.

 Assuming they could find him, which had turned out to be the greatest problem of their entire plan.

 Findekáno kicked at a fallen droid’s arm in his path. “I say that we give up this fool’s search and go home,” he muttered. “We would be of more use on the front lines.”

 “That would be a wise idea,” a new voice – so much like Father’s – drawled from above. Ñolvo’s lightsaber lit the darkness with an actinic blue glow, revealing a shrouded figure crouched upon the pipes above them. “After all, why would a great and powerful Sith like Fëanor want to ally with poor excuses for Jedi like you?”

 Arafinwë was cursing, fumbling for his lightsaber; Finno crouched in a rough estimate of one of Soresu’s opening moves, hampered by the lack of space in the corridor. Poor young Gelmir had scrambled backwards and looked like he was trying very hard to not run away.

 Ñolvo suppressed a cry of shock and did his best to look unimpressed. Judging by the shadowed figure’s soft, derisive laugh he hadn’t succeeded.

 “Because,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster, “it would be a mutually beneficial arrangement for both parties involved. And you know Father would have wanted it.”

 “Father,” the figure mused. “Come, Jedi.”

 Their return to the upper (and relatively safer) levels of Nar Shaddaa was much easier than their descent. Their guide, who proved to be an earnest young man draped in soft red and grey and far too young to be Ñolvo’s elder half-brother, clearly knew his way around, and led them slowly but surely to the spaceport district.

 “Who are you?” Ñolvo tried asking once, but was calmly rebuffed.

 Still, as they were led to one of the few Republic-exclusive spaceports in the district, Ñolvo couldn’t help but think the route they were taking seemed awfully familiar. When they finally reached their destination, he knew for sure.

 “By the _Force_ ,” Finno hissed angrily as their guide sliced through through the security panel and led them into their own hangar. “I should-”

 “Hello, boltbrain,” a light voice called, and the overly tall redhead Ñolvo had seen flirting with Finno more than enough times already waved them over. “I see Kano’s finally found you lot!”

 “Russandol?” Finno cried, and began to harangue his erstwhile suitor, but Ñolvo’s attention was drawn to the solemn figure standing firm beside their ship.

 At first glance, the man could have been mistaken for their father. Long dark hair framed an achingly familiar face and tumbled over broad, armored shoulders set in confident poise. But Finwë had always had a ready smile on his face, broad and easy, and a humorous glint in his eyes, and Ñolvo had never seen him wear Sith battle armor. This man scowled impressively at him, a soft flush in his cheeks only emphasized by the stark, unrelieved crimson of his gear.

 “Who put a stick up _his_ bum?” Gelmir snorted drily.

 “ _Timing_ , young Padawan,” Ñolvo hissed at him. He looked at his illustrious half-brother again, displeased with what he saw. Clearly, a lifetime of the Dark Side had done him no good and much ill.

 “Hail, Fëanáro son of Finwë!” _and Míriel Ϸerindë_ , he did not add. Everyone knew the tale of the fall of the first wife of Finwë. “I think we can safely assume Father has given you the same sort of message he’s given us?”

 Fëanáro snorted dismissively. “Every night,” he said carelessly, “not that you are worthy of being called his son” – Ñolvo sucked in a breath at the sheer _condescension_ in that statement – “but I suppose if it is his will then I will do it. Surely by now you have wrangled your Jedi High Council into submission?”

 “It does help to be a Jedi Master on that very council,” Ñolvo reminded him, emphasizing his own not-inconsiderable accomplishments. Soon-to-be Jedi Grandmaster, once the Council finished reeling from the shock of Morgoth’s rise. “I am hardly the helpless incompetent you envision me to be, brother.”

 “ _Half_ -brother,” Fëanáro hissed vehemently.

  _There is peace,_ Ñolvo thought as he agreed reluctantly. _And there is yet a victorious Morgoth preying upon us._

 “Well, that is done,” Gelmir said brightly. “Let us start this alliance!”


	2. Chapter 2

Forming an alliance was much more difficult than merely proclaiming it. Ñolvo found himself in the midst of fierce and often unsavory debates with the Senate, trying to wrangle pardons and concessions for Fëanáro and his oversized family. He shuddered to think of how much of his father’s fortune had already gone into bribes. Fëanáro was not the subject of much love in the galaxy.

 “No, no, a general mass pardon is perfectly inadequate,” his nephew Makalaurë was exclaiming dramatically over holocomm. “Don’t think that we don’t know about that secret prison you’ve made of Belsavis! Force forbid we should ever find any of our own in that stinking pit.”

 Ñolvo had a sinking feeling that quite a few Fëanorians, as his half-brother’s adherents had taken to calling themselves, were imprisoned there. As if in agreement, Makalaurë began listing names, and Ñolvo began feeling quite sorry for the unwitting senator at the other end of his ( _half_ -)nephew’s not inconsiderable charms. But with Fëanáro came some of the best scientists and engineers in the galaxy, as well as one of its most powerful fleets and the allegiance of well over a hundred planets, and no one doubted that he could make a powerful… if not ally, then at least not an enemy.

 Makalaurë had finished with the recitation of names and was now enthusiastically defending his brother’s right to control certain trade routes to very lucrative parts of the Outer Rim. The angry one, Ñolvo noted. Carnistir? Moryo?  

 He turned back to the enormous map of the galaxy taking up a goodly portion of his screen; Carnistir or Moryo or whatever his name was had taken up residence half a galaxy away and was inconveniently throttling trade between the Republic and her holdings in the Outer Rim, backed by two of his brothers and, unsurprisingly, a consortium of smugglers and pirates. Ñolvo snorted. Who ever said being a Sith was not lucrative?

 In the background, the senator on the holocomm had gone from flustered to downright intimidated, and was simply nodding along to Makalaurë’s demands. _Clever child_ , he thought, and wondered if he’d cared about the Fëanorians on Belsavis after all.

 “Nobody said this would be easy, brother,” Arafinwë murmured, coming up beside him. A flick of his fingers brought up fresh data, a map of trouble spots and unconfirmed sightings of the elusive Dark Lord. “In fact, I do believe Father said something to the contrary.”

 “Contrary is what our half-brother is,” Ñolvo muttered. “He’s the type to cut off his own nose to spite his face.”

 Arafinwë chuckled and put down his holopad. “Lalwendë sends her regards. Since her transmission came from somewhere near Hutta, I suspect we are not meant to wonder where she’s gone.”

 Ñolvo groaned. “Not again.”

 “I’m afraid so.” Arafinwë did not look remotely abashed.

  _Family_ , Ñolvo thought disparagingly. _No wonder Ingwë disapproves so._


	3. Chapter 3

 “No, there is no need for you to appear directly before the Senate,” Ñolvo snapped. Mind-altering Force powers aside, Fëanáro’s charisma was almost as legendary as his temper. “Makalaurë is doing a perfectly adequate job on his own. I don’t need rumors of Senate corruption on top of this.”

 “Rumors of Senate corruption,” Fëanáro said, bemused. Ñolvo pressed his advantage.

 “The Senate is understandably wary about your ability to bend minds to your will. They have no desire to see themselves made vulnerable.”

 Fëanáro burst into staticky laughter. The hologram fizzled for a moment, then restabilized. “I am hurt,” he chortled. “I am so very hurt at the mere thought that you could think something like this of me.” Then he sobered. “I give you my word, brother, that I do not need to use the Force to…  _encourage_  people to come to my point of view.”

 “The word of a Lord of the Sith,” Ñolvo said skeptically.

 “My word is good,” Fëanáro snarled, cutting the communication.

Ñolvo turned to his companion. “Do you think we can trust him?” Senator Haleth shook her head grimly.

* * *

 Of all the people his brother could have sent, why did it have to be the one dressed like an exotic dancer? Tyelkormo sent him an appraising look and slid down the seat even further, propping his feet up on the dashboard. His oversized terantatek of a hound whined softly and rolled over, panting.

 “Did you at least bring a pair of pants?” he tried again. “Most beings don’t show up to formal Senate meetings in boots.”

 “And a skirt!” Tyelkormo protested, bolting upright. One of his feet barely missed the external fuel dump valve controls on the way down. “I’m wearing a skirt!”

 “That thing is no more a skirt than you are a Jedi,” Ñolvo rebuked sternly. “Is this truly how you want the most powerful beings in the galaxy to see you?”

 Tyelkormo smirked. “If you have a problem with my wardrobe, I suggest you bring it up with Moryo. Or Curvo. Or Father.”

 “Maybe I will,” Ñolvo muttered. He checked the chronometer surreptitiously. They were making good time; perhaps he could make an unexpected detour and find his errant nephew a cloak or robe or something.

 When they landed at the family estates Tyelkormo didn’t quite manage to find robes they could agree about wearing, but he did walk out wearing a not-insignificant fortune in jewelry that Ñolvo resigned himself to never seeing again.

 The Senate meeting was, unsurprisingly, a complete disaster. To add insult to injury, Tyelkormo’s well-muscled thighs became  _the_  topic of the year of at least half a dozen Core planets, Coruscant included.

 “Very well, you’ve made your point,” Ñolvo said stiffly the next time he made contact with his half-brother. “I will bring the matter up at the next Council meeting.” 

Fëanáro smirked. 


	4. Chapter 4

It was strange, how easily his half-brother could cloud his otherwise clear judgment. The pale blues and silver of his meditation chamber no longer offered the serenity he needed, not when he spent so many of his days arguing with Council and Senate and Fëanáro alike.

 “There is no passion,” he breathed. “There is peace.”

 “Peace is a _lie_.”

 Ñolvo cracked an eye open to give his half-brother the frostiest stare he could manage. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he accused.

 “There is only passion,” Fëanáro all but purred. A smirk tugged at the edges of his mouth. “Through passion, I gain strength.”

 Ñolvo shut him out and went back to meditating. “There is no passion; there is serenity.” _My dear half-brother and I, reduced to throwing dogma at each other like raw apprentices. Father, I dearly hope you know what you’re doing, because I certainly don’t._

 He opened himself up to the Force, sinking into heavy currents of light and song. Fëanáro across from him was a dark, burning maelstrom, unsubtle and pulsing with power and entirely too _present_ for his liking.

  _Be at peace_ , he thought, emitting waves of calm. Fëanáro’s Force presence replied with a mental prod that felt very much like a metaphorical rude gesture.

 “… _rude_ little brother,” Fëanáro mumbled. He hadn’t stopped pacing, shedding darkness about him like a particularly poisonous mist.

 “Why are you even here,” Ñolvo demanded. “Get out if you’re not going to meditate.” His idiot Sith of a brother leaned over, smirking, to plant a soft kiss on his cheek before sauntering off.

 “You were not made to be a Jedi,” Fëanáro drawled. “There is too much passion-” Ñolvo made a sharp gesture and the door hissed shut, cutting off his words.

 “He is wrong,” Arafinwë murmured. “You know passion, but also have balance. He has none.” 

“I know, brother.” Ñolvo knelt again. “There is no passion…”

* * *

The last thing he needed to see was Finno come tumbling out of his quarters aboard the _Watchful Peace_ , trailed closely by his cousin. They were both disheveled, his mind noted, and promptly shut down that train of thought.

 “Oh, um, hello,” Finno coughed uncomfortably. Maitimo hastily pulled his shirt on, his cheeks flushing nearly as red as his hair. The silence stretched uncomfortably.

 “He is your cousin,” Ñolvo said, his voice calm. “And a Sith Lord.”

 Finno coughed again. “We… We’ll just be heading back to the _Valiant_ , then.”

 “Bye, uncle!” Maitimo chirped brightly.

 Ñolvo watched them scurry off, feeling old and tired and very, very un-Jedi-like. “This cannot be happening,” he muttered, resisting the urge to bang his head against a flat surface repeatedly until his imagination stopped supplying him with increasingly inappropriate images. “Father, I hate to doubt you, but this was all a _very terrible idea_.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

He dreamed.

  _“Míriel! Míriel!” he shouted, racing through burning rooms. He couldn’t feel her anywhere, and all his son was able to send were confused, fleeting glimpses of the stuff of nightmares._

 _He burst through an open doorway and suddenly she was_ there _, lying on a table with vicious-looking droids hovering above her. She held no Force presence. One of the droids made an abortive movement, and lightning crackled, striking it from the air. The others began to move._

_The droids, he realized, were not here for her. Nor could they have been sent for that reason; a closer look revealed the desiccation of a long-dead corpse._

_“Fëanáro!” he cried, reaching for the Force. He might be betrayed and his strongholds under attack, but he would be damned before he abandoned his son to Morgoth’s cruelty._

 “Fëanáro!” he cried out, startling himself awake. It was dark; the lights were dimmed, and he sat up in confusion.

 The door slid open, and to his shame Fëanáro stood there, wearing a fluffy robe and holding his quiescent lightsaber in front of him threateningly. The Sith Lord scowled as his eyes alighted on Ñolvo, and he quickly shoved his lightsaber into his belt.

 “Just a dream,” Ñolvo mumbled, his voice rough. “Sorry to bother you.”

 Fëanáro stepped inside and closed the door. A few seconds later, the lights snapped on. “Some dream,” he murmured, eyes tracking Ñolvo suspiciously as he perched on the room’s only chair. “You were screaming my name. Incessantly. It was quite… annoying.”

 Ñolvo winced. “Sorry.”

 If anything, Fëanáro’s stare deepened, disapproval forming on his face. “He sent you a dream,” he said slowly, quietly.

 “You could call it that.” They were quiet. No doubt the Sith had very creative interpretations on the definitions of a nightmare, Ñolvo thought.

 “It’s not fair,” Fëanáro said abruptly. “I am his eldest son. His heir. Why does he favor you so much?”

 “Favor me?” Ñolvo asked, surprised. “Do you really think that?”

 “Why else give you dreams? Why does he lavish attention upon you?” There was an odd, plaintive tone to his half-brother’s voice.

 “He loved you, you know,” he said, weighing his words carefully. “He wouldn’t stop talking about you, while we were growing up. It was always ‘Fëanáro this’ and ‘Fëanáro that’. Mother was always upset about that. Said he couldn’t let go of his past.”

 “So he loved me,” Fëanáro’s voice was quiet and bitter. “Just not enough to come back.”

 Ñolvo didn’t reply.

 “I would have gone,” Fëanáro whispered. “No matter what, I would have gone.”

 “Maybe he cared enough to spare you the choice,” Ñolvo offered. “You would have been a _terrible_ Jedi.”

 That startled a laugh out of his half-brother. It was quick and Ñolvo could hear the pain it in, but it was something, at least. Half thinking, he slipped into the archaic tongue Finwë had taught him, a long time ago. “Half brother in blood, full brother in heart will I be,” he murmured.

 “May no new grief divide us?” Fëanáro chided drily in the same language, his accent much clearer, the words coming more easily. He also had a distinct lisp, Ñolvo thought hilariously.  “Careful, _brother_. Words have power. We should not speak thusly. Basic is as good a speech as any, for our purposes.”

  _As you wish._ “May no new grief divide us,” Ñolvo replied firmly in Basic. “Let us be the brothers Father would have wanted.”

 “Careful,” Fëanáro said again, rising. He turned to leave. “For I am Sith and you are Jedi, and in that there can be no good end. Take care that I do not find you wanting.” And with that, he was gone.

 Ñolvo sighed into the empty room. “Of course not.”


End file.
